Brethilion
by Rochwen
Summary: One day I decided to take it upon myself to try to write a fanfic based on the lives of elves in Mirkwood, comprised entirely of OC characters, without having it turn into a SueFic. This is the result. WIP, under revision.
1. Prologue

Prologue  
  
Okee, well. What to say? I've written and rewritten this story more times than I can count. I almost finished it last Christmas, but all sorts of things happened so I had to drop it, and before I could continue it, instead of doing so I rewrote it... again. Oh well. I think it's better now than it has been before, and I like these chapters so much that I don't think I'll ever want to re-write them. ~-* So here you are! My story. It's mostly my take on the culture and lifestyle of elves in Mirkwood, which I find rather interesting. I mean, these elves cannot possibly spend their whole times idly drinking wine and hunting. They must have a bit of excitement now and again, eh? I thought that I could best describe the every-day life of a wood-elf using OCs, so that's what I did – I hope they're not so unstomachable, and I'm hoping that I am doing Tolkien some justice at least. I can't exactly trust myself to write a fanfiction completely of Original characters and do it well, though I have done it before. I probably made a lot of mistakes, if not in spelling, then in some sort of details that I forgot or never knew of in the first place. If I did, or do, please, feel free to leave a critical review or email me. Well... I hope you enjoy my story, and I'll stop blathering needlessly now! ^^ Ta! 


	2. One

Chapter One  
  
That day remained forever etched in Neldor's memory as one of sadness, though really there was nothing wrong with the day in and of itself. It had been a rather chilly morning, in the early autumn. The sky could be seen past the dense canopy, though still in the gray hues of dawn. Only a few birds dared to interrupt the heavy silence that had fallen upon the great forest of Mirkwood, as if they were aware of the grief that came in accompaniment with the day for one small elven family – and their tunes then had been mournful, as if they were trying to show their sympathy to the heavy hearts present within their midst. He remembered the look on her face: the face of Arlass, the wife of his brother. At one time, the slender young maiden had been one of the most cheerful and happiest that he had known in his life – that was what had made Brethil, his brother, fall so madly in love with her in the first place. Nevertheless, today her pale face was framed with her unbound, raven–black hair, and her dark brown eyes lacked the normal sparkle and luster that had previously spoken of her boundless energy and lightness of spirit. She was quiet, withdrawn and sad, as she had been ever since her husband was slain four weeks ago, and it broke Neldor's heart to see it. Yet today, especially, her expression of utter unhappiness and hopelessness struck him to the core, for he put himself to blame. His brother had died in his arms, to the blade of an orc – one of a group that had ambushed the siblings unawares whilst they were hunting. Brethil had died within moments of receiving the blow, but Neldor could not help but think that if he had been but a little quicker, if he had done something differently – anything – he would have been able to save him, and he would have been able to spare everyone much grief and tragedy. As it was, he had failed, and now he had to bear the consequences of his deeds.  
  
One of these consequences he held in his arms. The young elfling's arms were tossed about Neldor's neck, his small fingers clinging to the back of his uncle's tunic. Tulushall, the son of Brethil, rested his dark head wearily on Neldor's shoulder, and he gave a great yawn. The elven–boy was not accustomed to having to wake – and travel – at such an early hour. For that matter, neither was Neldor, but he cared little. He stared ahead of him, his eyes fixed upon Arlass. He and Tulushall stood in the archway of a stable, and they watched as four elves prepared horses for a journey. The elves were those of Thranduil's warriors who were willing to accompany the wife of Brethil as she rode off to the Havens, mostly friends of Brethil's who felt pity for the widowed elven maid. Arlass was speaking to one of these elves in a quiet tone, though she occasionally shot an anxious glance over her shoulder to Neldor and her son. Neldor sighed, tightening his hold on Tulushall and affectionately nuzzled the tousled locks, which were both just as dark as his mother's and his father's.  
  
"Where are we?" the little elfling asked sleepily, fidgeting in his uncle's arms so that he could look about him a little. He had to shake his head, tossing tendrils of his still baby–soft hair out of his line of vision. He blinked blearily over his shoulder at his mother. "Nana is talking to... Who is he? I want to go home!"  
  
"I know, Tulus," replied Neldor in a murmur, his timbre soft and sad. "We will go soon."  
  
This seemed to satiate the young elf for the time being. He continued to gaze at his mother for a few moments, maybe debating whether to throw one of his signature tantrums and demand acquiescence to whatever his wishes were at the moment, as he was well known to do. Neldor stiffened, bracing himself for this event, but it seemed that Tulushall thought it far too early to engage in such strenuous activity, for he gave another mighty yawn – exaggerated in a way that only those of a young age could do – and snuggled down into Neldor's shoulder again. He released a small sigh of relief – though, perhaps that one tragedy would have been better received than the one that they were about to go through now. Arlass at last seemingly finished going over their plans with the head of her escort, and the dark–eyed beauty turned towards Neldor and his burden. Neldor had taken it upon himself to see her off, for his own private feelings of remorse. He had left his wife – Tinlass, the sister of Arlass – and his own little son behind in the village, and traveled with young Tulushall and Arlass the short distance to Thranduil's halls. He did not blame Arlass for taking this last journey. Her heart had simply broken when her husband was lost so suddenly. Rather than watching her fade before them, Neldor and those who loved her would have her at last find peace – and happiness – within Valinor, and meet again with Brethil in the blessed lands if so their fate was intended. The only regretful aspect of her decision was her son. He was far too young to be given the choice to go along with his mother to Valinor. He had his whole life ahead of him – there were many wonders of Middle–Earth that Tulushall had yet to see, and Arlass would not deny them to him, though it broke her heart twice over to have to part with her child.  
  
"We are ready," came the quiet words from the elven–woman.  
  
Neldor could only form a faint smile – a mere twitch of his lips – in response as she looked up to him. He nodded, though would not meet her eyes – he felt that what reserve he had would break if he forced to look upon the after–effects of his failure for too long. At the sound of his mother's voice, Tulushall lifted his head again. The dark eyes sparkled sleepily, and he reached out wordlessly for his mother to take him. Arlass looked as if she wanted to cry, but took her little son as Neldor willingly relinquished the little creature. Tulushall looked mildly startled when his mother held him very tightly, stifling a small sob. Neldor watched with unshed tears in his own eyes as the slender maiden clung to her child, her white arms trembling along with the rest of her body as she held Tulushall in a veritable death–grip. The elfling's young brow was furrowed with consternation, and he held onto his mother worriedly.  
  
"What's wrong, nana?" he asked. "What happened? Why are you crying?"  
  
Neldor sighed – Tulushall had been told of his father's death, but the elfling had no concept of the idea. Already he had asked – several times – when his 'ada' was to return from his hunting trip... hopefully this would be a parting that he could more easily understand, though undoubtedly it will distress the child to no end. Arlass sniffled a little. She hid her face in her son's shoulder and soft black hair so that Neldor could not see, and her tone, though tremulous, was surprisingly calm considering the extent of her emotions. Neldor politely averted his eyes and his attention to something else, though he could not help but overhear the conversation between mother and son.  
  
"Tulus... I have to go, ion–nîn."  
  
"Go? Where are you going?"  
  
"Do you remember the stories that your ada used to tell you of Valinor? Of Elbereth and the Valar?"  
  
"Yes! I can remember every one."  
  
"Good," the maiden gave a shaky laugh. "Good, I am glad. Well, that is where I am going, Tulus – to Valinor."  
  
"Really? Will you see Elbereth? And Manwë and Tulkas and... and..."  
  
"Maybe. I think I will."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why are you going?"  
  
"...I have to. You see... your ada..."  
  
"Is he there too?"  
  
"I – I d– yes."  
  
"Ai! That is where he has been. Can I come too?"  
  
Neldor inwardly winced.  
  
"No," the mother replied quietly. "No, Tulus, you must stay here."  
  
"Why?" The young elf demanded pitifully. "I want to come!"  
  
"You cannot. You see, Tulus, you have to stay here. You know your little cousin? Arad? If you leave, he shall have no one to play with."  
  
"But – but I want to go with you! I miss ada, and I don't want you t–to go!'  
  
"Ssh. Sîdh, pen–neth. You can, someday, but for now you have to stay behind. Can you do this for me, Tulushall Brethilion? It is a very important task. You are going to have to be strong, for your uncle Neldor and your aunt and cousin – and for me and ada."  
  
"I–I... I will be, nana."  
  
"There is my good boy. Now, do not cry, ion–nîn! What did I tell you about being strong? All is well, little one – we shall all be together again soon."  
  
Tulushall nodded very quickly. His eyes were tightly shut, and heavy tears were rolling off of his round cheeks, but he clung to his mother, and did not give so much as a whimper as she smoothed back his dark hair, and kissed his forehead tenderly. Neldor's heart ached, knowing the anguish she must feel. He would never be able to bid farewell to his son in such a way – he had to admire her courage, and that of Tulushall's. The elven–woman then knelt, and set her son's two feet steadily on the ground. She carefully wiped the tears from his faced, and then kissed his cheek.  
  
"Just wait one moment, ion–nîn. Let me speak to Neldor."  
  
He simply nodded, and so Arlass rose gracefully to her feet. Neldor bit his lip as he gazed into the tear–stained face of the anguished mother. Arlass was doing her best to keep her emotions in check, though her eyes were red and she could do nothing about her tears. Yet, she did manage a shaky smile for Neldor. She stepped forward, and he carefully enfolded her in an embrace, as if he believed she would break.  
  
"Take care of him, Neldor," she whispered brokenly, sniffling into his shoulder.  
  
"I will," he promised in an undertone, but conviction was there. "With my life, Arlass."  
  
"I know you will," he could sense rather than see that she was smiling. "You are a good man, Neldor. Thank you."  
  
He shook his head, thinking himself undeserving of the thanks when it had been he who had brought them all into this unhappy situation in the first place – he who had simply let his brother and dearest friend die in his arms. "Do not thank me, my lady."  
  
"Do not be foolish," she pulled back from him, and tossed back some of her dark locks. She smiled up at him, and this time there was sincerity in the gesture. "If it were not for you... ai, things would have been so much worse. You have been a great comfort, but do not deny any for yourself. Do not shake your head at me! You did not kill – you did not kill Brethil, my friend. The orcs did, and you then killed them. You did all you could."  
  
He bowed his head, feeling the heat behind his eyes that spoke of encroaching tears. He closed his eyes briefly in a nod. He knew her words were true, and in time he would accept them, but he was not quite ready to just yet. "Navaer, my lady," he whispered.  
  
"Farewell, Neldor," she replied, and then lifted herself up to kiss him chastely on the cheek. He watched morosely as she knelt beside Tulus again, and hugged him tightly to her breast. The little elf sniffed loudly, but actually seemed a bit more composed than he had been a few moments ago.  
  
"Good–bye, my little one," Arlass breathed into his miniature pointed ear. "Be good for Neldor."  
  
He nodded. "I will, nana. Good–bye."  
  
She squeezed him once more, and then she stood. With a last longing look upon both Neldor and Tulushall, she turned, and walked towards the waiting escort. Neldor gathered his nephew – and newly appointed foster–son – in his arms, and the two watched tearfully as she and the warriors rode off, down a path into the forest. Neither saw Arlass again for as long as they lingered on the shores of Arda. Once she was completely out of sight, Tulushall gave a strangled whimper. He buried his face in his uncle's shoulder, shaking now and then as he suppressed his sobs, giving an extreme effort to keep his promise to his mother. Neldor closed his eyes, holding the elf comfortingly in his arms.  
  
"It is alright, Tulus," he whispered. "You can cry."  
  
And so he did.  
  
Author's Note: My friend, dear Talon, gave me a song just a while ago that I thought fit into this situation perrrfectly. Bring Him Home, from the Les Miserables soundtrack, lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer. So... I name that song the soundtrack for this chappy. ^^ 


	3. Two

Chapter Two  
  
"Tulushall Brethilion! Gîlarad Neldorion! Where are you two? I swear by every Valar if you do not come here this very instant, I will personally seek you out and send you both to bed without supper for a whole week!"   
  
Neldor turned his head, and looked on with amusement as his wife shouted out of the open doorway. The golden–haired elven–woman stood there with her hands on her hips, glowering outside with a look that could freeze water, even – as it was – in the middle of summer. He was standing, quite innocently, near the side of the house. He had an axe in his hand, and a pile of split logs at his feet. A smile graced his elven–fair features briefly, and he called out to her, "What have they done now, Tinlass?"   
  
For the moment stalling her perusal of the world around her, she turned to give him a stressed look. "The little terrors have made a mess of the house again! They traipsed dirt and mud all over the floors, and they have left their beds unmade and their room in a shambles while I was out in the garden. I told them next time they were to leave such a disaster behind them that they were to clean it up. … And…"   
  
"They are gone," it was a statement more than a question. Neldor knew he should not feel amused – but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly as he hid his smile. He did not want the wrath of his wife directed unto himself. "They left almost an hour ago, with that little friend of theirs – Finglas. They… should be home soon."   
  
She gave a heavy sigh. The elven–woman folded her arms and looked crossly over the other dwellings, as if hoping to see her wayward sons appear. They were some distance northwest of the elvenking's halls, in a small settlement in which they lived with ten or eleven other families. It was a peaceful place, and the elves did all they could do to make it as safe a place as was found in Mirkwood in those days. Orcs, spiders or any of the dangerous creatures that made their home in the uninhabited parts of the Woodland Realm had not gravely threatened them for many years. This was partly due to the constant vigilance the leader of the small village, Díntauron – who was the son of a captain of Thranduil's guard – and the elves who had done much to patrol and eradicate any threats as soon as they came into view. It was there that Neldor and Tinlass chose to stay, to raise their son and nephew as well as they might. Neldor had taken up trade as a carpenter, though he had been known as a warrior before his brother's death. He simply did not look forward to any more death if he could help it, and for more than twenty years he had managed to live quite happily without it.   
  
"Well, then," Tinlass said blandly, obviously disappointed that her children had escaped punishment for the present. "I suppose you shall have to help me."   
  
This was not something that Neldor was expecting to hear – he arched an eyebrow at his beloved wife, and then glanced down at the pile of wood. "I am afraid I cannot, meleth, for I am working!" he lifted his axe in evidence to the fact. "And then I must go and fetch Tulus and Arad from Mírdan's forge. I have a knife that I need him to fix for me."   
  
Tinlass made an indignant sound, and threw her hands up in surrender. "Fine! But all three of you shall have to have a talking to when you return."   
  
Then she turned, and stormed back into the house, slamming the door behind her. Neldor blinked insipidly after her, knowing very well that she was not speaking idly. He sighed, and let his axe rest upon the pile he had all but finished. He had done enough for the present – they had plenty of wood for the next few days. The shaded clearing in which the elves made their home was very quiet. It usually was when the youngsters were gone off visiting their friends or at play in the forest. Most of the men were off doing business as usual – hunting, carrying on with their trades or maybe resting at home with their families – and womenfolk could not be blamed for being overtly loud during the normal span of a day.   
  
The occasional bird twittered happily, or the dark squirrels that lived in the forest would chatter at each other, joined by the general whistle and murmur of the insects and animals that lived in Mirkwood. Summer was always Neldor's favourite time of year. He opened the door of his woodshop that led into the cluttered room. There was his worktable, with many scraps of wood and shavings, and small knives and files scattered over the surface. Larger pieces of wood and half–finished and broken furniture were strewn around the rest of the room, and there were shelves and boxes in which he kept his tools and best work. He collected the hilt of his knife and the two pieces that remained of its blade, and after wrapping them in a handkerchief he replaced them into his pocket, ready to go off to gather his children.   
  
Mírdan was the father of Finglas, a friend of Tulushall and Gîlarad's for a number of years. He lived in the village, but as a blacksmith he spent most of his days in the forge near Thranduil's halls. His wife had died during childbirth, and so he had to bring his son with him as he worked – so it was that Tulushall and Gîlarad could often be found there when they went to seek out the companionship of Finglas. Neldor had all the respect in the world for Mírdan, impressed that he was able to both keep control of and father Finglas properly whilst making a living off of the work Thranduil and the elven people offered him. Even he had trouble keeping track of his sons, who had the attention span of birds and the energy of wild horses. It was a good walk to get to Thranduil's halls from the elves' dwellings, and Neldor regularly walked it to retrieve his sons – ever since the death of his brother, he worried constantly over Tulushall and Gîlarad wandering in the woods on their own. Before leaving, he risked going inside to kiss his wife and tell her where he was going, and then retreated to the shady path.   
  
It was a particularly warm summer this year. Though heat or cold rarely bothered the elves, even they were a bit discomfited this summer, taking more to the more sheltered parts of the woods than in clearings or taking part of indoor activities. So he enjoyed the relatively cool atmosphere of the dark forest as he walked the twisting and turning path. He kept alert as he went along, intent upon any small noise that could indicate the presence of enemies. The dark forest, filled with brambles and fern, overgrown with thick oaks and pines and trees of names that only the elves knew gave way to thinner beeches and birches and trees of the sort, and the sun dappled regularly upon the green fern from gaps in the thick, woven canopy. Most of Thranduil's people lived here, in dwellings in and around the trees near Thranduil's palace, though there were also several more settlements like to that of the one Neldor lived in. He waved to a few guards that hailed him as he walked down the path – it was only a little way away…   
  
"Arad! Arad, get back here!"   
  
Laughter met this shouted request. Neldor stopped, just a few strides away from the forge, when a yellow–haired figure darted out of the archway. The young elf tore past Neldor, not even noticing his presence. The dark–haired elf arched a brow, and crossed his arms, watching as his son dashed off to the side of the building. Presently, two more elflings burst from the entryway. They were very similar–looking, both being of dark hair and having the lanky appearance of boys just ready to go into a large growth-spurt. One did not see Neldor, and ran off in the opposite direction that Gîlarad took. The other as did see him, and stopped dead in his tracks. Neldor laughed at the red–faced, short–of–breath elfling, and saw the mild surprise visible on the boy's features.   
  
"Well met, Tulus," he said, grinning. "I was beginning to think that I was invisible."   
  
His nephew grinned, and Neldor staggered backwards as the elfling flung himself at him in a quick hug. "Sorry! Hello, Neldor! Excuse me, I have to go find Arad…"   
  
He barely even noticed that Tulushall used his proper name. He had never allowed the small elf to call him 'ada' or 'adar', as his own son did, for respect of his brother. For a while, in the beginning, Tulushall had refused to acknowledge that either he or Tinlass were to be his new caretakers. He was difficult, and cried often and demanded loudly for his parents. This lasted almost a year. Just when Neldor and his wife felt that he would never become accustomed to his new life, he just suddenly stopped. It appeared that he had finally come to terms with the fact that he could not change the way things were, and given time he grew to love his aunt and uncle and was as agreeable and happy as any child in Arda. Neldor grinned fondly as he watched the elfling dart off again.   
  
"Tulus!" Tulushall stopped, and turned to look at him impatiently. Neldor pointed. "That way."   
  
"Thank you!"   
  
He was gone in a moment. Neldor hoped that Tulushall would not elaborate to Gîlarad how he had found him, or he would have both his son and his wife scolding him for the rest of the day. Amused, and praying that he would be able to collect his children later, he shook his head and stepped through the broad archway into the forge. The building was dark, though large windows took up the better part of the walls. The majority of the lighting came from a large fireplace and furnace that Mírdan and the other few blacksmiths used for their work. Neldor walked idly into the place, looking about him for the father of Finglas, but saw no one. His eyes swept briefly over the racks of damaged and repaired weapons and the anvils, hammers and pile of scraps that took up the man's workspace.   
  
"Mírdan!" he called.   
  
"One moment!" a disembodied voice replied. In less than a moment, really, a rather brawny elf walked out of an adjoining room. The blacksmith, upon catching sight of Neldor, gave him a wide grin. "Hello, Neldor."   
  
"Mae govannen, Mírdan. I am sorry for bothering you, I did not realize you were taking a break," the elf said apologetically, noticing that the other elf had a glass of water in his hand and that he was not wearing the protective materials he usually bore while at work. He was willing to wager that he had been taking his mid-day meal while he called.   
  
"'Tis fine, my friend," he shrugged off the apology. He balanced his glass precariously along the edge of the nearest shelf, and then walked forward to greet Neldor. "Although, I was not expecting you for another hour or so. Is there anything I can do for you?"   
  
Neldor smiled, clasping his hand briefly in a friendly manner. Mírdan and he had been friends – oh, for as long as Tulushall and Gîlarad had met up with Finglas. As fathers of such close companions, they had little choice but to at least be on speaking terms as well, and Neldor rather liked he blacksmith. Since the death of his brother, he had few regular friends. Mírdan was one of these.   
  
"Yes, actually, if it is not too much trouble. I broke a knife that I use often during work, and – well, I know it will be less bothersome to simply replace it, but I am rather fond of the thing."   
  
"Of course," Mírdan said. "Let me see it." Neldor retrieved the tool from his pocket, and handed it off to the blacksmith. Mírdan took it, and looked incredulously upon the broken blade. "Elbereth, Neldor, what did you do to it? It looks like a cave-troll tried to stand on it."   
  
He stifled a smirk. "Very nearly. I snapped it whilst trying to work with this particularly stubborn piece of wood, and the shard cut me," he lifted his hand in evidence – a faint red line scored his palm. "So I threw it, and it… broke against the floor."   
  
Mírdan shook his head. "For being fond of them, you are not very gentle with your tools, meldir-nîn. However, I will fix this. Shall I bring it home with me tonight? I can bring it to you then."   
  
"Of course. Would you be interested in staying for supper? Tinlass would be glad to have you, and Finglas as well."   
  
"Ah – I thank you my friend, but nay, I cannot. I have work to do at home that I can put off no longer."   
  
"What is that?"   
  
"I did not tell you? My sister and her family are coming to live with me for a while. Her husband has business in Mirkwood for some reason or another, and they need a place to stay. I am to fix up a few rooms for them, though I have not finished the job yet and they are to arrive here in a day or so from Imladris."   
  
"Ai – will you not be a bit crowded, Mírdan?"   
  
The blacksmith shrugged. "I can manage. Finglas and I hardly spend any time at home anyway, always being here, and it shall be nice for someone to tend the garden for a while. They have a child, a boy about Finglas's age. He shall be pleased, at least."   
  
"Hmm. If I can help you at all, let me know."   
  
"I appreciate that, but all we have to do is a bit of cleaning, and maybe some whitewashing – but it is nothing that Finglas and I cannot handle. "   
  
"He is a good boy."   
  
He smiled. "He is."   
  
"Ah, I hear Arad shouting – that means they caught him. I am afraid I have to go now, mellon-nîn. Tinlass shall have my hide if I do not bring the boys home soon."   
  
"Of course. Maer ré, Neldor."   
  
"I shall see you later tonight."   
  
After leaving the forge, it took Neldor some time to find his errant children. He hoped they were not purposefully avoiding him – when they had a mind to keep together for any amount of time, they tended to hide and were able to evade the parent for several hours at a time. He sighed, and began to hunt out the little elflings. The forge was found near the outskirts of Thranduil's main halls and dwellings. Nearby was the grounds in which the warriors practiced and were trained in arms, and the stables from which Arlass had left all those years ago. Tulushall's memory of the day had faded to something indistinct and just remotely sad, or so he said. It seemed that Neldor's luck was with him that day – he found the group of three elflings in the entryway to the stables, and seemed to be discussing something very important judging by the expressions on their faces.   
  
"We shall meet him?" he heard Tulushall ask cautiously as he drew near enough.   
  
Finglas, the second dark–haired youth, nodded. "I should think so. I haven't seen Saerdín in a long time, but I think he will be glad to meet you."   
  
"Good," Gîlarad said. "Then—"   
  
However, Neldor was spotted then. He laughed when all three turned and looked at him once. He was stricken at the moment by how much Finglas looked like his father, even in childhood, especially when he smiled so. Gîlarad grinned, and tackled him in a hug, and his father caught him fast. His son, on the other hand, looked as little like him as – he believed – was physically possible. The light blonde hair and blue eyes made him most entirely his mother's son. He could not tell whom Tulushall more resembled. He had the physical looks and build of his father at that age, and yet his eyes were as dark as Arlass's – Brethil, like Neldor, had gray eyes.   
  
"Ada! I didn't know you were here, 'till Tulus told me…"   
  
"Are we going home now?" interjected Tulushall, looking pitifully at Neldor. Finglas too looked plaintively at the elf. Neldor sighed deeply. He ruffled Gîlarad's hair and let him on the ground.   
  
"I am afraid so. Your mother wants to have a word with you two about the mess you made before you left."   
  
The elves made twin grimaces. "But it was Tulus's fault!" and "But it was Arad's fault!" came out at exactly the same moment. Even Finglas laughed.   
  
"I am sorry it has to be so, but we really must go. I hear you are having visitors soon, Finglas."   
  
The young elf nodded solemnly. "Tomorrow, maybe the next day."   
  
"Ah. Well, I wish you the best of luck, my young friend. We must be going now. Navaer."   
  
"Good–bye, Finglas."   
  
"Maer ré, Tulus, Arad!" 


End file.
